


Piano Man

by wordsareleftbehind (froggydarren)



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggydarren/pseuds/wordsareleftbehind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>Because of the photo above and the inevitable thoughts that my brain produced… (thanks <a href="http://fruitflyxo.tumblr.com/">Bee</a>, for pre-reading)<br/><span class="small">Minimal reference to CrissColfer, really just implied more than anything</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano Man

"Come on, Darren," he hears the familiar voice call him over, "This way, smile, keep it up, kid."

_Is it over yet?_

The thought hits him as he weaves his way through the crowd. It doesn't take much to put on a smile because he's mesmerized by everything. Like a kid in a candy store given free rein to choose anything. _How did I even get here?_ The faces he knows so well, the ones everyone knows, are milling around him and he feels out of place yet again. _Why am I here?_ He doesn't feel like he has the right to even look at those people, let alone talk to them.

Bill, Hilary, Charlize, Betty… they throw the names like those people are friends, like he should _know_ them, not just be familiar with their resumes. They walk past and some of them, many more than he expects, know him, recognize him. _Why?_

Then there's another shift and he's being pulled another direction. It's quieter, much quieter than before and he breathes in the air at first, tugs on the collar of his shirt and feels a little more at ease. It's still odd, to be here, to know his name and face opened doors. There's the lingering shock of his tour selling out that’s making his brain spin, the utter disbelief that he saw his name on a guest list for _here_.

He turns and walks in, the size of the empty space of the garden and the whole world around him suddenly even more overwhelming than the crowds of people wanting to talk to him, to shake his hand. The feeling of being small, insignificant and yet given so much importance suffocates him.

He nearly walks into the piano before he notices it, even though it takes up half the room. There it is, the comforting and warm feeling of _home_. Without asking permission, because what if he's told no, he slips quietly behind it and opens it slowly, with reverence. It's not often played, he notices immediately and his heart seizes at the waste. No one looks his way as he presses a few keys and finds it perfectly tuned. It takes maybe a few seconds and then he's playing a familiar tune, still without anyone turning and paying attention.

_I left my heart… in San Francisco…_

It's one he doesn’t sing as often as he wants to, because it… _hits too close to home, doesn't it?_

The pun in the thought isn't one he can ignore and a weak smile plays on his lips. It vanishes with the next few notes, when the tune he's been working on for what seems like his whole life materializes in his mind. It's slow, moody, almost painful and when he gets to the end of what he last put down, he adds another few notes, knowing he'll remember them.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he knows. _I miss you too_. But he doesn't look at it, not wanting to face the message or the answer he will eventually, inevitably type and send. It just makes him think of where he wants to be instead. He turns his attention back to the white and black keys, his fingers flying over them and creating yet another familiar melody. Still, no one turns, no one looks, so he allows himself a moment of letting go and playing something no one has heard before. Something he will not put out for public consumption, something that's so essentially _him_ that he wouldn't be able to bear it if even one person took it apart.

Here, playing songs that are near and dear to him, he's _Darren_. Sure, he knows he can be Darren Criss, spokesperson for everything important. He can be Dar, the Starkid. He can be the guy who plays Blaine. But at the piano, lost in the quiet but powerful sound of the notes, he's just… Darren. Darren whose veins are filled with music, whose heart beats faster with every note he hits, whose fingers will not stop moving over the keys. He's Darren who breathes and lives music because that's how he shows his heart. He's Darren who wants to be in LA, playing for only one person, having his hands rub out the crick in his neck when he's been at the piano for that little bit too long.

What he can do now is play and dream that what he feels gets across the miles or that he'll be able to show it again.

Then people turn and come closer and his smile is back and he plays songs they know and those that make them smile. He sings like his heart would stop beating if he stopped. Sings like he only has an audience of one, sings like _he_ is there and they can just be and not hide. He's Darren Criss again.

Finally, the small show is over and he excuses himself, slipping out into the garden where he finally fishes out the phone out of his pocket and thumbs over the screensaver. His eyes fall on the word on the message icon and a genuine, full smile contrasts with the dampness that clouds his eyes.

_I miss you. Come home soon._

A tear rolls down his cheek and he sighs, the dream of being able to just _be_ hits him again. The empty promises of _soon_ make his stomach turn because he knows it's not that easy. But at the end of it all, he opens the message again and types a reply.

_Soon, babe. Miss you too._


End file.
